


Wartime Pseudonyms

by hanap



Series: 13 Days of Halloween [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale infiltrates the criminal underground, Halloween prompt fills, M/M, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Blitz, unbeta'd we fall like Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: In the seventy-odd years after the holy water argument at St. James, Aziraphale decides to take an interest in London's criminal underground. Purely for business, of course. No other ulterior motives. (A prompt fill for racketghost's13 Days of Halloween.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 13 Days of Halloween [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978309
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Wartime Pseudonyms

**Author's Note:**

> I've missed so many days now, so I'm combining two prompts for this one: costumes and legends.

It has been nearly eighty years. Aziraphale tries not to dwell on it, but sometimes he can’t help himself. He can be precise about it, if he chooses, down to the hour, down to the _minute_ – but what would be the point?

He develops a strong interest in the criminal underground instead.

It’s the Lord’s work, he tells himself, nothing to do whatsoever with any personal desire for information on his part. For news, anything at all, any hint of Cr– he cuts himself off there.

The whispers are hardly audible, but he hears them. He knows by now what they say about him. _Relentless smile. Tongue quick as a viper’s strike. Blue eyes like chips of ice. Get on his wrong side, and you’ll see grey instead_ , _steely and cold._ It’s a persona so unfamiliar that no one who knows him would recognise him, least of all himself.

More whispers reach him. His performance in this decade has earned him a reputation among the humans that he’s never had before, not in all his years on Earth. He flinches when he hears about it the first time, from a young bartender who’s new to the city. She looks around surreptitiously and pitches her voice low. _If there’s something you need… taken care of, he’s the person to go to. The serpent, that’s what he’s called._ It sets his teeth on edge, and the sheer irony would be embarrassing if it doesn’t tug at his heart as much as it does, even several years later.

It’s not like he even does anything illegal, per se. A lot of the things Aziraphale does mostly have to do with scolding humans of varying degrees of corruption every now and then. Although, when he reflects on it, he can perhaps see why the humans might be frightened. He doesn’t want to admit it even to himself, but he does rather enjoy the moment when he walks into a meeting unexpectedly. Everyone falls silent. Waiting for him to speak. He’s never known what it’s like to command the attention of a room, to be listened to as though his words were gospel. Nevertheless, it makes him shake his head ruefully – he really should practise in the mirror a little more, he’s obviously still overdoing it.

Then again, it gets him what he needs.

The whispers begin to bring Aziraphale news. The poor and desperate have found someone else to turn to, a man they call _angel –_ the guardian variety, apparently, not the kind that burns down entire cities in one fell swoop. No one has any idea who he is, not even the most well-informed politicians or criminals. But somehow, people do manage to find him, now and then. _Whatever it is,_ Aziraphale hears as he enters a speakeasy with a well-concealed back room, _papers, tickets, shelter, rations, he’ll find a way somehow to find it for you. But you have to find him first._

It makes Aziraphale curious. Almost against his better judgment, he starts asking around, as casually as he can manage.

All the stories are different, but he can pick out the threads of truth in them. _Sunglasses_ , the first detail that makes his ears prick up. _Red hair. An uncanny ability to meld into the shadows like a ghost, disappearing into the night without a trace_. Once, a whisper very nearly makes him break cover – two men in the bookshop are attempting to have a clandestine meeting. Aziraphale catches a glimpse of an envelope passed from one hand to the other, and carefully tucked into an inner coat pocket. _Angel? More like a demon, he is. Gets what you need at the price of your soul and your firstborn child._

Aziraphale’s stomach is roiling. He busies himself with rearranging his books, but he's frantically turning the conversation over and over again in his mind. That’s not true, he thinks wildly, Crowley wouldn’t, he’d _never –_

 _Smuggled my brother out of the country, he did. We told him to be careful. To steer clear of the serpent,_ Aziraphale overhears one night as he picks at his fish and chips in a restaurant. _If the angel ever runs into him, who knows what might…_ The whispers come to a halt. A nervous glance darts in his direction. Aziraphale sits staring at his food, his appetite completely gone. He puts an inordinate amount of money down on the table with unwonted force and leaves, the voices raised in falsely bright cheer as he passes them on the way out.

Just this one time, Aziraphale tells himself, at last yielding to temptation – he hurries down one darkened alley after another. He knows the route by heart, the secret rendezvous point for _the angel,_ a small dimly-lit flat in the heart of the red light district, turn left, then right, then right again, go up three flights of stairs, find the door at the end of the hallway, there’s a key under the mat that opens a door on the top floor of the building.

He nearly runs up the last flight of stairs in his haste. His trembling fingers fumble at the key before he can fit it into the lock properly – and to his shock, when he turns the key, the door swings open slowly of its own accord, creaking heavily on its hinges. The flat is pitch-black. As he crosses the threshold, a sudden wave of foreboding grips him. He snaps his fingers to conjure up a light, and he finds himself standing in an empty room, completely stripped of all its furnishings. For a moment, there’s a chill that runs up his back, and instinctively, he turns – but there is no one there. As he shuts the door, the key disintegrates into nothing in his hands.

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, rubbing the back of his neck to get rid of the unpleasant prickling sensation that he’s being watched. Compulsively, he tugs at his waistcoat and makes his way home, trying to ignore the awful squeezing of his chest, the tightness in his throat.

In the bookshop, Aziraphale double-checks the stack of books neatly wrapped in twine. His precious books of prophecy – just the thought of them in the hands of Nazis makes him feel ill. It will be fine, he tries to remind himself, that dear girl Rose Montgomery would take care of everything, and he’ll be right back in the shop with his books before he knows it. He’s worn this identity this long; it would be a shame not to put it to as much good use as he could.

But as he unties the twine to knot it more carefully, there’s a whisper in the back of Aziraphale’s mind he can never stifle quickly enough. _You can be the serpent if you like_ , it murmurs, the words laced with venom, _since the real serpent is so clearly occupied with playing angel and can’t even be bothered to visit once in a while, hasn’t even rung you once, not a word in seventy-nine years, four months, sixteen days, an hour and forty-seven minutes –_

There’s a knock at the bookshop door, and Aziraphale clamps his thoughts down sharply. Inhales, exhales.

They won’t suspect a thing, he thinks, fussing at his bowtie in the mirror one last time. They never do.

**Author's Note:**

> It was too much to hope for that I'd be able to write a fic every day during midterms season, but we're doing our best over here lmao. Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


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